


At The Edges

by Kay_Morgan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Implied Mystrade, Indirect references to suicide thoughts, Johnlock - Freeform, Language not any worse than in the series, M/M, Mild Angst, Pre-Slash, alternating povs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:57:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kay_Morgan/pseuds/Kay_Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall, John keeps spying fragments of the life he once had at the edges of his perception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s notes: This is my tumblr's Sherlock Secret Santa gift for mind-heart, inspired by the original art and interests I found on her tumblr. I hope you enjoy it, Meretricious and a Happy New Year! I trust I'll be able to post the remaining chapters before Christmas Day is over (CET).
> 
> Many thanks to lovely sra_danvers for her kind support and encouragement.
> 
> NB: I know next to nothing about psychotherapy or psychology. I wish I could take a crash course and do all those admirable professionals justice in this storyline. Since I can’t, I’ve tried to keep it general, and I sincerely hope I have not put my foot in it too badly. To them goes my utmost respect and deepest apologies.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not beta-read. Not Brit-picked. Not mine. No profit.

**I.**

‘Sorry I’m late. So sorry.’

‘It’s all right, John. Sit down, make yourself comfortable and we’ll start.’

‘Ok.’

John sat on the familiar armchair next to the French windows. It had been many weeks now; every Tuesday at 1 pm. But, instead of settling back with his hands clasped on his lap, as he was wont to do, the doctor perched tensely on the edge of the seat. The fingers of one hand tapped impatiently on the wooden arm, while the other plucked aimlessly at the front of his jumper, grabbing it lightly only to let go almost immediately. Dr Thompson noted his unusual agitation carefully.

‘How’s everything going, John?’, she asked in that calm, soft way of hers.

‘Mmmh? Oh! Good. Everything’s good’, he replied quickly, smiling in a rather unconvincing manner. And then he frowned. ‘Actually, you know what? No, it’s not. It’s silly but, it’s just… this stupid jumper.’

‘Is it new?’

‘Yeah. It’s nothing special, really. And it’s not like I needed a new one. But I was running errands and, I don’t know… it just caught my eye as I was passing by’, John explained, a bit embarrassedly.

‘It’s very nice. Suits you.’

‘Yeah, well. The thing is I wore it for the first time today, and it’s my day off from the clinic, so I thought I’d drop in on Mrs Hudson, you know, my landlady.’

The therapist nodded. Even though John was still living in his old bedsit, he’d told her that Sherlock’s elder brother continued to pay for the flat at Baker St, ostensibly to give John the chance to move back in the moment he felt ready. John had grumbled about this to her, but she could see that he was touched by the gesture.

‘So there I am, letting her fuss and stuff me with tea and puff creams, and then she’s complimenting my new jumper, saying how the colour suits my complexion or something, but all of a sudden she’s looking… sad.‘ He paused for a moment, looking away towards the window. Ella waited in silence while the doctor pursed his lips and inhaled sharply, collecting himself. ‘Mrs Hudson said this bloody thing is the exact same colour as Sherlock’s scarf. I know which one she meant. The one he was wearing when he died’, John enunciated sharply, careful not to falter when speaking his friend’s name, when saying out loud that he died. It had taken him a while to control that small thing, and there was a world of pain tethered between those two words. Sherlock. Dead.

‘I see. And that bothers you.’

‘Yeah, yeah, it bothers me all right’, he half-muttered, sighing deeply and finally sagging against the back of his chair, ‘because she’s absolutely right, you know. Now that _she’s_ pointed it out, I can see it in my mind, clear as day. It is the same sort of expensive-looking blue. God, I’m such an idiot. I’ve been thinking about the sheer insanity of it all on my way here. Its like… when you don’t know that you do something -bite your thumb or scratch your forehead- and, after somebody else points it out, you suddenly remember every single time you’ve done it, though you didn’t even know back then’ he finished, and looked at his hands resting on his lap, clearly uneasy.

‘What do you mean, John?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Now I’m feeling bad about it, as if I’ve been keeping secrets, but I swear I didn’t think anything of it. Well, I’ve… Oh, damn it all. About a month ago I was shopping for a birthday gift for one of the assistants at the clinic and I found this paper weight. I never saw the point of those things, but I bought it anyway. It’s crystal, round, Caribbean blue -and no, I don’t like Enya, thank you very much-, and has these little yellow flame-things radiating from the centre.’ 

He paused, looking back at Dr Thompson with a grim expression. She gave him a look of polite puzzlement. John threw his hands in the air.

‘Sherlock’s eyes! They were just like that, translucent blue with golden streaks around the pupils. They made them look green in the sun’, he exclaimed, finishing almost in a whisper and looking tiredly at the ceiling. ‘In the end, I couldn’t give it to my colleague, had to buy something else in a rush. I ended up putting it in a drawer so that I wouldn’t look at it constantly’.

He drew a hand over his face and stared at his raised palm. After a few moments, he continued speaking.

‘I haven’t even gone back to the flat yet, been avoiding anything to do with Sherlock’ John confessed. As he spoke again, he closed his eyes, shaking his head. ‘God, I’m such a bastard. I haven’t even returned a single call from Lestrade. I mean, I know he managed to keep his DI badge -Mycroft’s doing, probably- but he must be having a really rough time. And I wanted to, but I just couldn’t face him. Can’t deal with anything from my former life. And now look at me with the poncy jumper, for God’s sake.’ 

He chuckled at that, but grew serious again and went on. ‘It’s as if I’m trying to find something of him in the craziest of places. I keep chasing absurd little things at the edges of my vision. Of my other senses too. Not just the stupid t-shirt with a skull on it, no. It’s a man’s hand with long, square-tipped fingers that I glimpse for less than a second in a crowded train. As I’m helping an old lady with her coat at work, I notice the wool has the same texture as that grey monstrosity of his. Just the other day, I heard someone playing the violin as I walked past the Royal Academy; must have been a student practising. But the music they were playing… Yeah, I know shit about music, but it sounded a lot like the sort of thing Sherlock liked to compose when he was working something out. With those long, languid phrases… Is that what they’re called, phrases? I think so. Anyway, I walked on but I kept thinking it was _his_ kind of melody, although I’m almost sure I’d never heard that particular piece before. Insane, isn’t it?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Wanna hear the best of the lot?’ he asked with a half-smile and a mischievous crinkling of his nose, ‘I religiously watch Doctor Who because the bloke, the Eleventh Doctor, reminds me a bit of him when he gestures wildly, or at certain angles. It’s completely nuts. _I’m_ completely nuts’ he concluded, running his fingers through his hair and leaning back to look at the ceiling again.

‘ _John_ ’, Dr Thompson chided gently, ‘it’s a very good thing that you’ve put all those things together, None of us want to look into the things we do without meaning to, it takes courage to look hard at yourself and take stock.’ 

The doctor looked back at her with an awkward smile. She went on. ‘Would you like to talk about why you may be experiencing this?’

John exhaled a long, audible breath, and replied, ‘God, no. Not now, not while I’m so very pissed off with myself, ok? I promise I’ll think about it later. In time for next week, soldier’s honour’, he pleaded. Ella smiled, nodding once, and he asked, ‘Can we please talk about something else? Work? Anything.’

‘Sure.’


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fall, John keeps spying fragments of the life he once had at the edges of his perception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s notes: This is my tumblr's Sherlock Secret Santa gift for mind-heart, inspired by the original art and interests I found on her tumblr. I hope you enjoy it, Meretricious and a Happy New Year! I trust I'll be able to post the remaining chapters before Christmas Day is over (CET).
> 
> Many thanks to lovely sra_danvers for her kind support and encouragement.
> 
> NB: I know next to nothing about psychotherapy or psychology. I wish I could take a crash course and do all those admirable professionals justice in this storyline. Since I can’t, I’ve tried to keep it general, and I sincerely hope I have not put my foot in it too badly. To them goes my utmost respect and deepest apologies.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not beta-read. Not Brit-picked. Not mine. No profit.

**II.**

‘I promised I’d think about, well, about why I keep finding completely random things that remind me of Sherlock’, said John, sitting up on the chair, his jaw set. He had decided to dive into it as soon as the greetings were over. No point in dragging it out, he thought practically. It would have been nice if it made it marginally less embarrassing, though.

Dr. Thompson’s eyes widened with mild surprise, and then she nodded encouragingly.

‘So you did. How did it go?’

He cleared his throat and shrugged his shoulders. No, no luck on the embarrassing front. Soldiering up then, John Hamish. Or maybe not.

‘I have no idea. Actually, I was hoping _you_ would tell me.’

‘You tend not to like my ideas very much, John.’

‘Yes, I know. And I also know that you don’t take it badly when I do that, and I appreciate it, I really do’, he replied with a tired but genuine smile. ‘Please.’

‘Well, you told me you stay away from anything that reminds you of your previous life with Sherlock.’

‘Yeah. Mind you, I’m not proud of it. Even _that_ bit’s stupid. I mean, I visit Mrs Hudson, I even tried to reach Molly on the phone a couple of times. Not that I’m planning to go to Bart’s to see her anytime soon, though. Haven’t spoken to Mike or Greg…’ He trailed off, looking down at his hands. He felt pathetic for avoiding places, and people who genuinely cared about him. He knew it was the cowardly thing to do, but he’d felt the pain and regret tearing at his chest like an icy claw often enough that he couldn’t bring himself to go looking for that torture where he knew he was sure to find it.

After a few seconds, the therapist resumed her train of thought.

‘I believe you may be unconsciously trying to create new memories about him.‘ John looked up with raised eyebrows, so she elaborated, ’It’s perfectly natural not wishing to dwell on painful memories, of course, but, at another level, I think it hurts more not having even a part of Sherlock with you every day. We’ve talked about how much you miss the work you did together, yes, but there’s also the conversations, the shared jokes, the companionship.’

‘So I’m basically making things up.’

‘You’re just relating certain things to your friend because you miss him. Maybe you are not letting yourself remember him, because it’s painful, and you make those connections instead. It’s ok to feel that way, John, I assure you.’

John inhaled deeply. The ghost of the familiar coldness was forming in his chest once more, although his cheeks burned with the shame of realisation. Much as he hated it, Dr. Thompson was good at her job provided that he gave her something to work with.

‘I have…’ he false-started, his voice not quite working; he coughed once. ‘Most of the time, I’ve got to admit it, I try to stop the memories when they crop up. They’re cunning bastards, ambush you guerrilla-style. Especially the bad ones; you won’t be surprised if I tell you they are not easy to bear.’ He pressed his lips together. Even that tepid admission had cost him a tremendous effort. John knew just how very good he was at repressing things. After all, he once had a quite noticeable limp that proved it. And now the image of the man who had chased the numbness away kept coming to him spattered with the darkest of reds.

‘Time helps with it, John. It’s only been three months’, Ella pointed out softly, ‘And there must be some good memories too.’

‘I don’t know about time being any good, Dr Thompson… And it feels much longer than three months, to be honest. But it‘s true, yeah, there are a few good ones too’, he admitted, chuckling faintly and turning his eyes to the window before continuing, ‘and they also take every opportunity to appear uninvited, I can tell you. They‘re waiting there, right at the edges of… well, of my mind, I guess. I mean, I see the classic aerial view of Buckingham on the telly and, next thing I know, I’m laughing like a loony, thinking of bedsheets and ashtrays. Ahem, long story. Anyway… Yeah. And also… I hardly take taxis anymore but, when I do, I always end up remembering how we laughed at that serial killer because he was an awful cabbie. I know, I know, sounds sick, but it felt good at the time.’

John fell silent for so long that the therapist was about to speak when he continued.

‘I’m painfully aware I must be admitting to needing medication here but… I don’t seem to be able to enjoy much of anything these days. Everything’s so dull, so boring -God, Sherlock must have _really_ rubbed off on me, with that kind of talk-… Well, it makes remembering our insane adventures the highlight of my day, really’, he concluded, shaking his head and letting out a self-deprecating laugh. He really was a nutcase, he thought. If only losing his mind made it all easier, but karma was a bitch, no matter whether you believed in it or not.

‘Keeping memories of your friend with you is a good thing, John. Sherlock was your best friend. But it would do you good to think about, to get comfortable with the idea that it is ok for you to continue to enjoy your life, to create new good memories to join the rest of them’, she said carefully.

The doctor looked at her with soft eyes and a knowing smile.

‘I know you’re right, yes. But you see… Reality, that is, my life as it is now… It really can’t compare.’

He truly meant it. His memories were bright and vivid like a Vermeer. The present, the future, both of them were painted an unforgiving, uniform grey.


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fall, John keeps spying fragments of the life he once had at the edges of his perception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s notes: This is my tumblr's Sherlock Secret Santa gift for mind-heart, inspired by the original art and interests I found on her tumblr. I'm finishing the fourth and last part of this story (again, sorry about the delay, really, I'm such a slow writer!) but, in the meantime, here is the third.
> 
> Many thanks to lovely sra_danvers for her kind support and encouragement.
> 
> NB: I know next to nothing about psychotherapy or psychology. I wish I could take a crash course and do all those admirable professionals justice in this storyline. Since I can’t, I’ve tried to keep it general, and I sincerely hope I have not put my foot in it too badly. To them goes my utmost respect and deepest apologies.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not beta-read. Not Brit-picked. Not mine. No profit.

**III.**

‘I wanted to tell you… I had a dream a couple of nights ago. One of those your old friend Freud would have a field day over.’

‘Would you like to talk about it, John?’, Dr Thompson asked with carefully controlled interest. John had refused point-blank to discuss his dreams, insisting that they were just your garden variety, PTSD-induced nightmares and not worth mentioning. She focused on keeping a calm, open manner. Encouraging.

‘Yeah, I know, hard to believe, right?’ he said ironically, ‘But it was not one of the usual nightmares I‘d rather not rerun in my head like a B-movie Halloween marathon. There was no falling, no blood… No words I wish I could have said, this time.’ His crooked smile turned strangely tender as he went on, ‘I was in a park, it might have been Regent’s, maybe? I sat on a bench under the sun and suddenly there was a child dressed up as a pirate standing in front of me. Eye patch, sabre and all.’ He let out a laugh. ‘It was Sherlock. Sure, I’ve never even seen a photograph of him when he was little but I knew it was Sherlock, you see, the way you know stuff like that in dreams. The same mop of dark curls and, and the same eyes, pale, slanted, on the round face of a small boy, can you imagine?. And he said to me, all serious, _“I‘ll ‘ave yer gold or yer life, ye scallywag!”_ , or something like that.’ 

Jon laughed again and looked up at his therapist, biting his lip. She gave him a wide smile, both glad and surprised to see him open up like that on his own volition. 

‘It’s not as crazy as it sounds, ok?’, he explained, ‘His older brother once told me that, as a kid, Sherlock wanted to be a pirate, so I guess that’s where it all came from. The pirate talk? No idea, maybe I’ve watched the Muppets’ movie too many times. Actually, his brother was in the dream too. He came looking for Sherlock and started apologising to me for his brother. Mycroft in shorts, oh, God! And if that wasn’t funny enough, he looked exactly the same, sour and slicked back, only shorter. And he was doing the same too, worrying about Sherlock getting hurt and trying to make him behave. Mind you, I still could throttle the pompous prick but, after I woke up, I kept thinking it can’t have been easy, being responsible for Sherlock, not ever.’

He fell silent, his eyes looking into the empty space between the two of them.

‘John?’

‘It was a beautiful dream, damn it’ he whispered. ‘But it’s all pointless. I don’t want to cling to a ghost, I just want to get myself together and find a way to clear his name once and for all. That’s the only thing that matters, not all this nonsense’, he mused, frustration clear in his voice. ‘No, honestly. Why do I keep doing this?’

‘You’re grieving, John. Trying to cope the best you can. There’s nothing to be ashamed of’, she said, weighing her words with caution. She wanted to convey that this was all very normal, but she was worried about touching a sensitive fibre and having him withdraw again.

‘Yeah, all right. But I did lose other friends in Afghanistan, good friends I had fought with, mates that had been by my side in the worst place imaginable, and it never… never hurt like this’, he admitted through gritted teeth.

‘John…’, began the therapist, not entirely sure of how her next words would be received. ‘You loved him very much. He was your best friend, but he was also the most important person in your life.’

She observed him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. John was very still for a while, just looking at her with wide eyes and his mouth slightly open. When he finally moved, he ran his fingers through his hair repeatedly. When he finally spoke, he sounded half-irritated, half-amused.

‘Hang on, Dr Thompson. Ok, so maybe it’s true, maybe he was at the bloody centre of it all. I rebuilt my life around him and it was worth every second, so there. But, come on, don’t tell me you agree with the fans’, he asked with a hint of humour. ‘Remember I told you about them? They’ve been great, really trying to get people to listen, to stir things up and expose Moriarty’s lies, but they also… Well, they’re mostly these lovely ladies, sweet, caring, and completely obsessed with the idea that we were truly, madly, deeply, etcetera‘, he finished, rolling his eyes.

‘Labels are unnecessary, John. People around us can fill our lives in many different ways. Our feelings for someone don’t have to be romantic, or anything to do with physical love, to be the strongest and the deepest of all’, concluded the therapist, pleased at the direction the conversation had taken. She firmly believed John needed to reflect on all of this.

He grew very serious. His eyes took a hard look, and he pursed his lips. After a few moments, he squared his shoulders, stared at her and spoke in a deceivingly calm tone.

‘To be honest, maybe I would have ended up offing him myself out of sheer frustration, or maybe asking him out, I don‘t have a clue. But there’s one thing I know, Dr Thompson, and it’s this: it doesn’t really matter if Sherlock’s was the best, the closest friend I’ll ever have… or if he was something more important _for which labels are unnecessary_ , all I know is I’ll never have anyone like him in my life again. So there’s really no point in going on searching day after day, is there?’

That was definitely not an answer she would have expected from him. She hurried on. ‘But, surely, with time and work you will realise your life is still full of purpose, you just need to focus on recognising it, and you can even find new goals and attachments‘, she reasoned, betraying a slight note of urgency in her voice.

‘Well, not to be pessimistic or anything, Dr. Thompson, but right now I don’t see how. And I believe we’re out of time anyway’, he pointed out wearily.

‘You’re right, time’s up. I hope we may continue to talk about all this next week, John.’

‘Of course’, he replied with a polite smile that didn‘t reach his eyes. They got up, shook hands and the therapist walked him to the door, closing it behind the doctor’s retreating form.

Even though it was time for her lunch break, Ella sat back in the therapy area with John’s file resting on her knees. She went over the conversation carefully, trying to convince herself that she was exaggerating, that she was seeing signs of danger where there was just a patient beginning to open up. She really wanted to believe that because, otherwise, she would have to consider doing something she’d vowed not to do under any circumstance. And yet, no matter how she looked at it, she kept seeing it there, in John’s eyes, in his words before the end of the session… The absence of his usual fighter’s instinct, of the will to go on. John was a disciplined man, a brave man, he would probably get back on his feet and soldier on… but she couldn’t risk it. She really couldn’t.

She got up and walked over to her desk. She put down John’s open file and moved her hand to rest lightly on the phone. She simply stood there for several minutes, with her other hand covering her eyes. She had already decided to do it, she knew she would, but certainty didn’t make it any easier or any less terrifying. Even if it was justified, betraying her own principles was going to cost her. At last, she inhaled sharply and lowered her hand from her face. She rifled through the file until she found what she was looking for, and then she picked up the phone and dialled. Someone picked up almost immediately.

‘Hello? My name is Dr Ella Thompson. I’d like to speak to Mr Mycroft Holmes, please. Yes, I’ll wait.’

She used her free hand to reach for her chair. She knew was going to need to sit down for this.


	4. Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the fall, John keeps spying fragments of the life he once had at the edges of his perception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s notes: This is my tumblr's Sherlock Secret Santa gift for mind-heart, inspired by the original art and interests I found on her tumblr. 
> 
> Yet again, I have to apologise for the delay in continuing the story, I didn't want to leave you hanging, it just takes me so frustratingly long to write anything. Also, I honestly intended for this story to have four parts but it seems to have a mind of its own. I'm working on the final installment, I hope to have it ready soon.
> 
> Many thanks to the lovely sra_danvers for her kind support and encouragement.
> 
> NB: I know next to nothing about psychotherapy or psychology. I wish I could take a crash course and do all those admirable professionals justice in this storyline. Since I can’t, I’ve tried to keep it general, and I sincerely hope I have not put my foot in it too badly. To them goes my utmost respect and deepest apologies.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not beta-read. Not Brit-picked. Not mine. No profit.

**IV.**

He decided to walk at least part of his way back to his lodgings, just to clear his head a bit. John was beginning to regret leaving Dr Thompson’s on such a grim note; he couldn’t deny he’d derived a rather perverse pleasure from failing to reassure her that he wasn’t going to do anything stupid, and now he was feeling like a complete jerk. For God’s sake, she was just trying to help him, even if she ended up irritating him like a bloody bed of nettles more often than not. But the conversation had worn him down to his very bones and left him feeling vulnerable and more than a little mean. 

Without needing to delve too deeply, he knew that he would keep on fighting to regain a semblance of a life. That was him, after all, single-minded, stubborn and resilient. But being asked for his strength so soon, when he was still so hurt and so lost, that wasn’t fair either. And Sherlock… He knew he would never forget him. For the time being, he had to keep fighting to restore his reputation. After that was done, he’d have plenty of time to figure out the rest of his life.

Just as he was contemplating ringing the therapist to clear the air, someone tapped on his shoulder. He turned to find Mycroft’s assistant standing there, ever the frustrating picture of perfection, holding the door of the black car open with one delicate hand and her mobile with the other. She was smiling politely and looking at him instead of the screen, for once.

‘No way in hell’, he deadpanned. ‘Right. Sorry about my language but no. Seriously, Anthea… or whatever your name is, he can bloody well forget about it. Christ! Yeah, language, really sorry’, John finished, waving a hand in front of him. He managed to retain a determined air, hoping to make up for getting all over the place. He didn’t know what her job description was, but that woman was a true professional at making him squirm.

‘John’, she said in an unexpectedly earnest tone, ‘I really wish I could tell you my real name, and you _really_ need to come along. This is not a conversation you want to pass up, believe me’, she insisted, staring at him.

Unsettled by her seriousness, he hesitated. It rankled to be summoned just as arbitrarily as if nothing had happened. On the other hand, he’d wished more than once during the past few months for a chance to punch his nibs in the face. For healing purposes, he thought with irony. Finally, John shook his head, let out a huff and motioned to get into the car. He noticed how she relaxed visibly at that. It was very out of character, he reflected. ‘Where are we going?’, he asked after she sat in the car by his side and they were off. 

‘Baker St’ Anthea said mechanically. Supporting himself on one elbow against the back of the seat, he turned to look at her and noticed that, instead of typing incessantly on her phone, she was staring into space, holding the phone over her lips with both hands. 

‘What does Mycroft want with me now?’

‘Mm? Oh, no. Mr Holmes sends his apologies for being unable to meet you on this occasion, something… unexpected came up. But he instructed me to assure you that there isn’t any sort of threat, that everything is well and, provided you maintain an open mind, you will find this _meeting_ highly enlightening’, she recited, still looking distracted.

John’s hand closed into a tight fist where it rested on his thigh. He spoke through gritted teeth, ‘Right. Well, you can tell him that, unless it turns out he’s finally decided to get off his arse and do something to prove to the world that his brother wasn’t a fake, I’m just not interested.’

‘Don’t you _dare_ judge him’, she spat at him without any warning. Her eyes were hard, boring into John’s. ‘You will never now what he has sacrificed for Sherlock’s sake.’

‘Wh-What?’, John spluttered, completely thrown by her sudden anger. She turned back to stare at the front seat, so he pressed on, ‘What do you mean?’

‘Nevermind. I shouldn’t have spoken at all. I apologise’, she replied with a note of finality. 

He wasted no time in getting out of the car the moment they arrived at 221B, glad to escape the uncomfortable atmosphere. He couldn’t even begin to figure out what that was about and, if Mycroft wasn’t even there to meet him, he doubted he’d get anywhere. He rang the doorbell; after there was no reply, he fished for the key he kept in his wallet just in case and opened it. He crossed the threshold and froze.

John felt chilled, liquid fear running down his spine and spreading to his limbs, slowing time down unnaturally. From his former flat, floating down with the surreal quality of dreams, came a beautiful melody, skilfully performed at the violin. Wordless thoughts raced through his brain, ideas of danger and traps, of Moriarty and revenge. Before his instinct and army training took over, he spared a fleeting thought for the piece of music, which he seemed to recognise vaguely.

 _I have nothing to lose_ , he repeated in his mind like a mantra as he left the street door ajar and mounted the stairs in silence. The door to the living room wasn’t completely closed. He lifted his hand to push it open. All words, all ideas left him, replaced by white noise filling his head. John took a couple of numb steps into the flat and turned towards the source of the sound. 

Through the vertigo of fear, through the searing pain in his chest, John struggled to think. A double. Moriarty’s sick games. But his mind was drifting, too preoccupied with being unable to reconcile sight and memory. The tall, proud figure standing easily on the worn carpet clashed with the limp mess of limbs lying on the pavement in front of St Bart’s. The strong back, gracefully curved to accommodate the instrument, jarred with the useless column shattered by the impact on asphalt. The sure hands coaxing the notes out couldn’t be the lax, silent ones he had ineffectively felt for a pulse. The luminous eyes staring intently into space were not coursed with blood. _Sherlock_. The name fought with his mind, with his lungs, demanding to be screamed. But John couldn’t even breathe.

And then the man who had once chased the numbness away raised his eyes and fixed them on the doctor, as he’d done a thousand times before. The melody faded away softly. Sherlock lowered the violin and stood there thrumming with nervous energy, as he’d done a thousand times before.

‘John’, came the exquisite baritone. The achingly familiar voice seemed to prompt the doctor’s self-preservation. Reality rushed back into sharp focus as he inhaled deeply through his mouth. His heartbeat pounded against his sternum, making it difficult to hear himself think.

_You did it. One more miracle._

‘John’, Sherlock repeated, and he took two confident steps towards him, stopping abruptly when he saw his friend flinch. He frowned and tilted his head to the side in his usual questioning pose. John could feel his eyes prickling because of that childish mannerism he thought he’d never see again.

‘S-Sherlock’, he managed to whisper with difficulty, ‘you’re… not… dead’ he finished, as all the air left his lungs. He felt unbearably tired.

Dropping the violin and bow on the sofa with a flourish, Sherlock held up his hands in a wide gesture.

‘Obviously.’

John let out a mirthless laugh and shook his head. Yes, that sounded just like Sherlock, all right. And still…

‘Hang on a minute. Yeah, sorry, but I just… I really have to do the paranoid thing for a bit, just bear with me, ok? Will you, Sherlock?’

With a roll of the eyes, the other man gestured for John to go on.

‘Right, ok. Erm…‘. He rubbed at his temples, trying to focus and not give in to the _Whys_ and _Hows_ churning in his brain until he felt it was safe to let his knees give way, both literally and figuratively. ‘Ok, that first case, the first crime scene you took me to, the pink lady’s case. There were police all over the place -so no criminals eavesdropping, I hope-, and we were alone in the room so… So, when I said “There’s a woman lying dead” what did you reply?’

He thought he sounded more than a bit desperate, and he got the confirmation when Sherlock raised his eyebrows and, after a moment, stepped up and took him by the shoulders. He felt anchored by those warm hands, by the piercing eyes locked with his own as the other man murmured calmly, ‘Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you’d go deeper.’

Relief licked at John’s insides, hot as a flame, making very real sweat break on his forehead. He covered his face with his hands and began to mumble, ‘Oh, my God, Sherlock, how the hell? How could you possibly…?’ He didn’t get a chance to finish the question, for Sherlock clapped his hands on John’s shoulders gingerly and straightened, speaking at his usual devilish pace as he walked away from him and began to pace the room impatiently, while John was left struggling to keep himself upright on legs weakened by shock..

‘Nevermind that, John!’, the other man said briskly as the doctor‘s eyes followed him, ‘I mean, of course I’ll explain how it was achieved, my false demise, probably when we stop for _your_ dinner. I’m sure you’ll want to get all the details right for your blog, won’t you?’ He rubbed his hands together, his eyes darting all around the room. ‘Right, well, Mycroft did insist that I apprise you of the most important facts, so let’s get it over with: in short, I had to convincingly pretend to kill myself because Moriarty had snipers ready to execute you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade if I did not commit suicide, thus confirming to the general public that I was a fake. So I arranged my own simulated death quite successfully, you were witness to our flawless _mise en scène_. And then, naturally, I’ve spent these past few months tracking down and breaking up Moriarty’s operative, very efficiently, I must say, not to mention gathering up the necessary evidence of his extensive, and very inventive, criminal activities. Oh, in case you wondered: Moriarty’s dead.’

John tried to follow the stream of information. Moving seemed like an impossible feat. He fancied he could feel his chest contracting, as if he hadn‘t just been relieved of that painful burden that had been his friend‘s death. Almost with a will of his own, the ugly question formed on his lips before he could think about it. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Sherlock! Why did you let me believe…?’ _That you had gone without a fight. That you‘d left me all alone._

‘Oh, come now, John, think! In order to keep you safe from Moriarty’s men, I had to remain dead for their benefit, and they’d be watching you, do you see? My brother has seen it fit to assist me adequately where it was required. It was only to be expected, after all, he did have certain past Moriarty-related indiscretions to make up for, as I’m sure you are aware. Besides, it gave me the advantage over them, appearing to be well and truly dead.’ Sherlock made a slight pause, looking at John inquisitively for a second before going on with his tirade, ‘Well, that’s it, I believe. We have time for a cup of tea, to ease off the surprise, and then we have to be going, John, we’ve got work to do.’

 _Work._ The casually uttered world felt like a ringing slap on his face.

‘What? Wait a minute, Sherlock, what are you… Work?’

‘Of course, John! I would have liked a bit more time to tie every detail up for the court case, but Mycroft was adamant that you needed to be made aware of the whole business immediately. So Lestrade has just been given all the information to take the case in and, well, it seems to have had certain unexpected ramifications that we need to address with him urgently.’

John could believe in Sherlock’s power to defeat death itself, but he couldn’t believe what he had just heard. The pain in chest turned dull, chronic. He felt shameful realisation wash over him like icy water running under his skin. With a rigid back and clenched fists, he spoke in a dead tone.

‘So that’s it. You were dead, now it turns out you weren’t, and it’s business as usual’.

‘Problem?’ Sherlock asked with raised eyebrows and puzzled eyes. 

The doctor gritted his teeth, grimacing. ‘No, of course not. You told me so many bloody times, didn’t you? That caring for people in danger won’t help save them so you just… don’t. So, so really, why would you care about putting _me_ through hell? How could I be so stupid?’, he said bitterly.

Sherlock fidgeted. ‘Oh, please. It’s not like I’ve been gone for three years, it’s only been three months, John!’, he blurted out in a put-upon voice.

Unable to look him in the eye any longer, John focused on a point above Sherlock’s head. With great effort, he loaded his words with as much finality as he could muster. ‘Right. Well. I’m… I’m glad you’re not dead, I really am. But if you try to follow me now I’ll break your neck, I swear to God. Good luck with… with it all, Sherlock. I’m done. I can’t keep doing this.’

He managed to walk, quickly and stiffly, until he crossed the door to the flat. On the first step of the stairs, he broke into a run. In a heartbeat, he was on the street again, looking for a cab as intently as if it were prey. Another heartbeat and he was hurrying into one. He fell onto the seat, out of breath despite the short run, and urged the cabbie to drive off even before he could decide where he was going. After a moment, he nodded to himself and gave him the address. He leaned back, drained and exhausted. Abrading thoughts dragged slowly through his mind.

_You damned genius, you bloody bastard. You did it. One more miracle._

_You just didn’t do it for me._


End file.
